Obliged

(A short story I wrote last year for the Commonwealth Short Story Competition. I did not win anything.)

I hated having to take the bus on cloudy days. I'd have to share the already precious space with all those who would have, on a regular day, taken their two-wheelers to work. Just a hint of rain and they would cram in with the rest of us regulars.

You could always see how crowded a Chennai Metropolitan Transport bus well before it arrived at the stop, from the characteristic tilt in the direction of its doors, thanks to the weight of the humanity packed inside and that hanging onto the window rails from outside. Today, the tilt looked more precarious than was usual. I was going to be late. As the bus stopped, half the people packed into the amalgam of heads, elbows, shoulders, arm-pits and sweat got off to make way for a third who needed to get off at this stop, still stuck inside, treading on anonymous toes, fighting their way to the doors. This was followed by the customary swell of people who elbowed their way back in. Youngsters were generally expected to travel on the footboard or hang from the window rails. I suppose most of them liked the thrill, the danger of falling underneath the wheels and the exhilaration of the oncoming rush of air. It certainly beat all the sweating on the inside. 

One of them recognized me. A fellow regular. He moved over a bit to reserve some space on the hand rail for me to hang from. Camaraderie. I declined, with a thankful nod. I was too well rounded to be hanging off of anything for an hour. I let that bus pass; and the next. I was going to be late, what was half an hour more? Two more buses later, I got onto one that was relatively uncrowded. Small wonder that - it was well past nine. A couple of stops later I even got a seat. As its previous occupant got up, I dropped my bag onto the seat before anyone else got to it. It was like a flag. I claim this seat in the name of...

As if on cue, one of those senior looking types hobbled onboard. He shuffled along the aisle, to stand right next to where I sat. 

I bit my lips in frustration and started assessing what the social norms mandated under the circumstances. There was a couple in the row behind me. The woman was at the window and her husband on the aisle seat. He did not have to give up the seat beside his wife to another man, even if he be old, I reckoned. The person sitting next to me, at the window, seemed middle aged; he looked at me expectantly. I looked away. The two seats in the row in front of me were occupied by relatively young professional looking fellows; probably late for work like me.

I could feel several eyes on me now. My neighbour coughed, pointedly. I stayed put. I could see both fellows in the row before me getting restless too. They were as obliged as I was to get up. 

Several expectant moments passed.

The chap in the seat right in front of me finally relented. He gestured the old man onto his seat. He then took the spot vacated by the old man, standing beside me. I did not need to look at him; I could smell his smugness. I could feel his eyes looking condescendingly down at me. I decided to meet his 'holier-than-thou' look with my steely gaze. I turned to face him. 

He got off at that stop.